


mundo perdido

by sebviathan



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Porn With Plot, Stress Relief, they're lowkey meant for each other in a really tragic way ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26358805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: Lalo respects the self-imposed exile, but he thinks it’s about time someone freed Ignacio from it.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	mundo perdido

**Author's Note:**

> takes place around the events of Namaste, which along with Dedicado A Max left a pretty hefty gap where we have absolutely no idea what lalo and nacho are doing so i GOTTA take advantage of that.

Varga had certainly earned his place as an honorary Salamanca, particularly as a temporary head of operations. Unfalteringly loyal, knows when to stay quiet, and with a brain to rival Lalo's own, if he's being honest.

Yet for a good while, the most remarkable thing about him remained that he managed to make baldness work so well.

It's very rare that a lack of hair doesn't immediately turn Lalo off. Even rarer that he finds it _so_ fitting that he can't imagine a man otherwise. He has too much on his mind to dwell on something like that for long, though. Varga is simply a conveniently competent and resourceful character to have around. As well as a decent piece of eye candy, whenever Lalo has a moment to spare.

And then Lalo watches the man leap stupidly from rooftop to rooftop while police swarm underfoot, and he's reminded viscerally of his own venture back into a Hotel Tulipan that was still on fire—he can feel the heat again, and the night sky before him goes from black to red, and even though he's most definitely known it this whole time, he thinks he's just now really hearing Varga's actual name echo in his head.

Not Varga. Not Nacho. Not _Nachito_ —though rolling that around his tongue does begin to bring a spark.

No. _Ignacio._

How fitting that he'll go up in flames like this. Lalo finds himself almost sad for a moment, and that _almost_ is only because the man of the hour is back in the car an instant later. He shines with just as much sweat as Lalo is sure he had himself after retrieving that keepsake, and _dios mio,_ look at what _he's_ brought back. It's worth a million stupid bells.

The street dealers in the backseat are surely frozen out of shock. _Lalo_ is frozen because his dull world, made a bit brighter by this little show, has just cranked up the saturation painfully high. Everything that made Ignacio easy on the eyes before... makes him _blinding_ , now.

*

Most others in his family, and he supposes most others in the business at all, have the excuse of an addiction. Some chemical rewiring of their brain has desensitized them to what might otherwise be deeply upsetting and prevented real attachments from taking root. Cocaine or meth or something else now controls their ability to feel—and therefore, their life.

But Lalo has never done meth and only has the occasional test-bump of coke. Even if that was enough to change someone, he's been like this since at least his early teenage years. _Nothing_ controls him. Only extreme amounts of alcohol will even put him on autopilot. As long as he's sober, Lalo is fully in the driver's seat for every move that he makes.

He'd absolutely rather control himself than allow a substance to do it, but sometimes it's exhausting. Sometimes the walls between him and everyone else just get too thick and he's just _so_ tired of his family being the _only_ crack in the glass.

He pounds on it when he has the energy to, begging for just a hairline fracture. He searches and searches until he finds a man who excites him, and each time it relieves him so much to know that it's even still _possible_ that he throws his whole self into it.

And then that energy drains from him. It never lasts longer than a few months, usually less. He grows bored and, more often than not, his fondness is replaced gradually with disgust. What was once a desire to cup his lover's cheek and admire his beauty becomes the instinct to wrap both hands around his neck and shut him up for good.

Lalo decided that he hated how it felt after following through with that desire for the second time. He had to hope that if he stopped acting on it, then the urge would stop coming at all. He would simply learn to manage his feelings better. He would learn how to save his lovers from falling from his own grace. He _would_.

Each time that Lalo has failed to learn, he's grown more hopeless. He imagines that he'd prefer to have had his heart actually _broken_ over... whatever it is that keeps happening to it.

He's wondered so much what that feels like. A sublime sort of agony, like rising from bloodied knees at the Virgin of Guadalupe, is what his mind's eye keeps coming back to, lately. It ghosts over his heart as though with anticipation.

Especially now that he looks at Ignacio and, for the first time, sees a man capable of breaking it.

*

If not for the others in the car, Lalo might have done more than just laugh and call him a badass before driving away. He has _no_ such excuse for the following two days, during which he has too many opportunities for privacy.

It only makes sense for him to take some time, though. Doesn't it? Ignacio is different. He can't just be slotted into some mad libs template of seduction like any other object of Lalo's desire—he _is_ no object of desire at all, come to think of it. If _that_ were accurate, Lalo would actually know what he wanted.

He only wants anything, right now, as much as a moth _wants_ to sit in the glow of a flame.

So he spends the next several days working against the instinct that's meant to keep from burning up. There _are_ other things unfortunately worthier of his focus for that time, putting that wall back up between Lalo and the world as he deliberates over the Ocho Loco situation—but it's so much thinner, now. So breakable. He has to stop his fist in the process of it winding up and press his face against the glass instead. Ignacio has come alight, and there's no part of him that Lalo can't still see. He only feels the heat less.

It at least gives him time to truly admire Ignacio in this new light.

Ignacio, who does not need an ounce of guidance but still respects Lalo's authority enough to check in.

Ignacio, who puts his arm around his underlings like they're family, and all the same does not hesitate to be firm.

Ignacio, who offers to organize the murder of his own good friend because he believes it's what Lalo wants... and who looks no less pretty when he says it.

Ignacio, whose visage burns into Lalo's eyes no matter how long he remains turned away, no matter how deeply he busies himself with the cold familiarity of his car.

Ignacio, with his thick eyelashes and his natural pout and his ever-worrying brows and his soft voice and his gold chains and red shirts, _always_ with the red shirts, some a barely visible underthing and others a top layer that mark him from a mile away, and of course his _Javelin_ , as though he's making a purposeful play at invoking lust and desire.

 _Ignacio_ , with his broad, stiff shoulders and his arms that Lalo would need two hands to wrap around, so often folded, covering his chest, hiding not just the gorgeous muscle but the heart underneath, closing himself off, his back taut and strained at any given moment, always alert, always on guard, always curled _in_ on himself as far as he can be without betraying his own authority...

Lalo respects the self-imposed exile, but he thinks it's about time someone freed Ignacio from it.

For a brief time he is consumed with fantasies of all the ways that he could ease Ignacio into making that decision on his own. In his head he sees, clear as day, how beautiful it could be. He also sees every way it could go wrong. Ignacio is just so wound up, leave it to him to free himself and who _knows_ where he would go.

He's wound up even now, with Ocho Loco back not only on the streets but right here in El Michoacan. Lalo's well-trained eyes catch it from the kitchen window—the way Ignacio sits, the way his shoulders never fully drop for even a moment.

Lalo finds that his own shoulders stiffen as though in sympathy when he watches him, that he's stopped singing along to the radio without realizing. He then wonders if Ignacio ever sings. If he ever hums to himself when he thinks that no one else can hear him. If there perhaps _is_ anyone that he would trust to hear him sing, whether he sounds good or not.

He also finds himself unconsciously rolling out far more masa dough than he could hope to eat or serve today, just to have an excuse to stay in the kitchen. In here, the heat outside of him matches the inside, makes him feel as though his own emotions have filled up the room. It encourages him.

From the moment that the last dealer enters the restaurant, Lalo is counting the seconds. He has a plate ready by the time that the money is in Ignacio's hands. He turns the stovetop to the lowest setting and feels as though he's simmering himself, watching those hands.

He sets the food down in front of him, the plate passing the man's face without warning, before the door can even fully swing shut.

"Lunchtime at last, eh?" Lalo grins as Ignacio cranes his neck back in soft surprise. "Hey, you earned it."

There's a twitch in Ignacio's brow. He did nothing special today and he certainly knows it. Lalo expected that, but he still meant what he said.

Standing up, his hand shifts from the back of the chair to Ignacio's opposite shoulder. The movement is impulsive but deliberate. He means only to give a friendly squeeze, an indication of the more physical side of his appreciation—and then he finds that he actually _struggles_ to squeeze... almost anything at all.

"Jesus, man, what are you hiding under this shirt—rocks?" he has to laugh. The muscle underneath his hand resists him even more.

"...Maybe," Ignacio finally says, but only after Lalo pauses long enough to make it clear that he wants a response.

Chuckling again, he makes a few more experimental squeezes across Ignacio's traps—and then he gets the feeling that the other man is instinctively stiffening up further with each touch. There's a cold spike in his chest. Lalo softens his grip until his hand is merely resting over the collar.

"You know that you're probably the most tense person I've ever met?" he tries to say good-naturedly, eyeing the plate of food that has yet to be touched.

Ignacio hums. "Yeah, well. I've got a stressful job."

"Don't we all." Lalo breathes a laugh and leans down so that his other hand rests on the table again. Ignacio takes the cue and meets his eyes, at which his chest and confidence blooms. "But most of us do _something_ to take the edge off. Don't you?"

Mostly unconsciously, but with some purpose, he begins moving the hand on Ignacio's shoulder in soft circles. Something changes in Ignacio's gaze when he does.

When he hesitates to answer, just pursing his lips and staring back hard, Lalo continues,

"Of course, I doubt you're the type to resort to the hard stuff very often, huh. No—you know the value of a clear head. You're smart like that. I just hope you're also smart enough not to push yourself past the breaking point, Ignacio... Please tell me you at least get something out of those girls."

He recognizes another shift at the mention of them—almost certainly fear. He wants to be offended that Ignacio assumes bad intentions from him, but he just keeps going, not letting it show.

"I mean, you go home after a long day, you toss them their drugs, and what? Surely they notice what I'm noticing, and I have to doubt they wouldn't _want_ to. Don't tell me that you don't let your girls repay you with a little massage now and then, Ignacio..."

He wonders if the other man can tell how much Lalo enjoys letting his name roll off his tongue. Moreso, he wonders if the motions of his hand, having gotten steadily firmer, kneading just slightly deeper with each rotation, have been consciously noticed.

Either way, he's relaxing.

"They—" Ignacio seems to have underestimated the dryness of his mouth. Knowing that he's had that effect makes Lalo widen the stroke of his hand. "They do sometimes, yeah. It's enough. Honestly—I've been handling my shit for a long time, you don't need to worry."

While Ignacio averts his attention to the food (finally), Lalo's brow and cheekbones all arch back. _Worry._ No, he doesn't need to. But he _wants_ to.

Delighted to hear that they're on the same page, he stands up again. In the same motion he plants a second hand on Ignacio's back.

"I don't know, man," he mutters, feeling him begin to tense up again, "Those girls are kinda small—no offense to them, I just don't think they're strong enough to really get in there. I think I could do a much better job."

In fact, he's sure that he already is, as little as Lalo is actually touching him. He's managed to convince him to eat, at least.

"...You don't have to," comes Ignacio's voice after a swallow. It falters at the very moment that Lalo shifts his grip yet again.

It sounds like permission.

"I don't _have_ to do anything, Ignacio. I want to. Trust me. Please, just... enjoy your lunch, and let me help you."

Lalo promptly presses his thumbs just underneath the man's neck and rolls the pressure around until his breath audibly hitches. _Such a bad spot to hold tension in_ —he wishes so badly that he could do more than _hear_ Ignacio's relief. But he hasn't earned that, yet. He needs to give him so much more than _that_ first.

When he's thoroughly worked out that spot, he digs the heels of his palms around Ignacio's shoulder blades. Slowly, so as to not interfere with his ability to pick up the gordita. It seems that actually taking bites and swallowing will be slow-going no matter what, though. He should have expected that he'd be distracting.

"It's a lot better when it's a bit rough, isn't it?"

Ignacio only groans in response—both out of annoyance and agreement, he imagines. Likely because Lalo couldn't sound any more smug if he tried.

He can, however, continue to prove himself worthy of that attitude. And with each new bit of muscle that eases up under his fingers, and each new hint that his efforts are appreciated, Lalo feels himself coming ablaze.

There is a definitive moment that Ignacio's arms drop to the table, unable to support themselves any longer. Lalo's hands are already migrating down his triceps before the moment is over, pulling more shuddering breaths from him, pulling _himself_ closer by default as he makes it down to each elbow—close enough that he catches a glimpse of Ignacio's closed eyes and nearly slack jaw. His own breath stops, now.

Back up to those now entirely loose shoulders he goes, and then—with such a whim as one that might drive him to run directly into a burning building—each palm smoothes itself over Ignacio's chest. His fingers splay out over the top of each pec, not very far down, _just_ enough to get himself across.

The next sound out of Ignacio's mouth is finally, _finally_ more than a breath; Lalo gets the mental image of it ripping itself from its prison, marking the man free at last.

Some sort of moan breaks from him as well, masked by the scrape of the chair against the floor as he uses a surge of strength to pull it back, Ignacio and all—

And as he swiftly, _seamlessly_ —at least as far as he can tell in his brief haze, comes to the front of the chair and falls onto his knees.

His impatience nearly gets the best of him. But then the heat in his neck yields long enough for him to see the other man's face straight-on—his surprised, flushed, _beautiful_ face. It gives him such clarity that he forgets for a moment what is right in front of him.

"Do you know what eases _my_ tension, Ignacio?" Lalo breathes, his fingers curling into the thighs on either side of him. He tries so hard to not take too much too quickly. "...Not very much at all, really. I have to admit I'm a hypocrite—I just store it somewhere deeper, but I hold onto it for so long. I forget that I have it... And then a man like you comes along and reminds me that I could feel so much better than I do."

Only once he dips to kiss Ignacio's still-clothed inner thighs does the man finally use his words. He's never sounded more ragged.

"What if—it's daylight still, what if someone—?"

" _Let them see,_ " Lalo groans, muffled by denim. Then, with his cheek resting on the rough bulge, he looks up again. "I won't let anything happen to you, Ignacio. I promise."

He watches those long, thick lashes flutter more than they ever have in a mere five seconds. He catches a tremble of his jaw, a tongue darting out to wet his lower lip... and a nod.

In most of Lalo's fantasies of this nature, the pants have been able to come down entirely so that he could truly go to town. He still intends to do that, nevermind where they are—up until Ignacio's cock is officially unrestrained. As it turns out, Lalo was aching for it worse than he thought.

A burning sensation in his ribs sends Lalo surging forward to taste him, and he can't stop himself from being the first one to _really_ moan. It's been decades since he last forced himself to keep his pleasure quiet, but frankly nearly as long since he last felt such pleasure just from the weight of a cock in his mouth. It's almost embarrassingly intoxicating. He takes several blind, mindless strokes to the back of his throat, still moaning all the way, before tilting his head back and meeting Ignacio's eyes. He's got a hand covering his mouth.

"Mm— _please_ , don't," Lalo says, reaching up to gently pull the hand away. "It's okay. No one will hear you but me, Ignacio."

Tightly lacing their fingers and holding his gaze, then, he lowers his lips back to the head of Ignacio's cock. He doesn't take his length into his throat this time but licks slowly, deliberately, all the way down and up and down again. He wants to see it—he _needs_ to see it. The way his eyebrows knit together, the shine of tears of arousal that his eyes take on, the straining of his tongue against the roof of his mouth as though he's trying _not_ to say it—

" _Lalo, please._ "

And that's _it_. He has a million and one ideas of all the ways he'd love to tease Ignacio to death, but he didn't get on his knees to torture him today. He hears his name spill from those lips and he feels no desire to do anything but _obey_ —to help him, to _release_ him, just as he set out to do in the first place.

Lalo swallows him to the base as consistently as he can while he bobs his head, drawing as much further noise from Ignacio as he'll give. He seems to try his damndest to stick to groans in the beginning. As soon as just the right amount of tongue on the head of his cock makes him hit a high note, however, it's as though they crossed a threshold. Lalo feels his own cock pulse in his jeans and satisfies himself only by sucking harder.

Soon enough he can no longer breathe well enough through his nose, and as he comes up for air he doesn't waste a single second to tell him,

" _Pull my hair, Ignacio._ "

The tight grip of both hands is almost immediate—he eagerly allows Ignacio to shove him back down, knowing that it's a testament to how good Lalo has made him feel thus far. Distantly he wonders how long Ignacio has wanted to do that for, and if he would ever have done it without explicit permission. Less distantly, he realizes how much he would love to have Ignacio really take charge.

Then he's brought back to the present by yet more delicious moans, which quickly become peppered with soft _fucks_ as well as his own name.

If his heart decided when he came, Lalo would be done ten times over by now. He begins to not even recognize _Lalo_ as anything but a sound that he'll never tire of hearing out of Nacho's mouth, especially cried like _that_ —

" _Lalo_ , I, I'm gonna come—"

He hardly registers that grip trying to pull him off as he instinctively swallows him to the root, making sure that Ignacio finishes deep inside of him. And he keeps swallowing, determined not to waste a drop, relishing the lingering taste and missing it before it's even gone. The strangled scream that comes out of Ignacio echoes between Lalo's ears. It doesn't stop even after he's pulled off.

Clearly drained in more ways than one, Ignacio's hands fall off of his head, his whole body practically limp in the chair. Lalo groans at the sight, so hard at this point that it's outright painful. Rather than make any move to unzip himself, still, he pushes up just enough to get his hand around Ignacio's neck and pull him down for a kiss. There's so little saliva left between them, but he doesn't care. He's just so hungry for him.

And then, somewhat abruptly, he pulls back to see Ignacio's face again. He wants to see the gratitude up-close. More importantly, he _needs_ to know exactly how far he has managed to unwind him.

"Ignacio," he croaks, his legs all but trembling.

"Lalo," he breathes back, with less pause than usual. His legs _are_ trembling. And his cheeks are as flushed as they were before his cock was out of his pants. If only he had hair, and then he'd _really_ be a mess.

The most notable thing is, he hasn't tightened back up at all since he came. Nor does he as the silence progresses.

"...I've just realized that I never really let you enjoy your lunch, did I?" Lalo finds himself saying. He stands, and brushes off his knees, and turns around to face the cold, half-eaten gordito. He has to laugh. "You're probably even hungrier after that, huh? Why don't I heat this up for you."

Ignacio makes no move to confirm or deny, but if he's anything like Lalo, he'll be starving within a couple minutes. He's certainly still coming down from his orgasm. Lalo feels nothing but proud.

Truly, as he squeezes Ignacio's shoulder and takes the plate back to the kitchen, nevermind the arousal that hasn't quite gone down yet... he feels the most relaxed that he has in a long time.

***

In a way, working for the Salamancas has actually helped his relationship with his father. It's a shield. A scapegoat. He made some bad choices when he was young and he's stuck with them now, is all.

That's what Nacho's father believes is the sole reason for the walls between them. Any hard place that he encounters, any deviance that his son has made from their family's traditions... he'll blame it all on this thing that he views as ultimately fixable, whether it is or not. Disappointment from _that_ , Nacho can handle.

What he cannot and will not bear to face is disappointment for _who_ he is, choices aside. And he knows that he will. His father could never hate him, no, Nacho doesn't believe _that_ —but the knowledge would be such a burden on him. However much he already prays for Nacho's soul would double. He'd be engulfed in shame, far moreso in himself for supposedly not being a good enough father. He would spend the rest of his days knowing for certain that the Varga name wouldn't be carried on.

Worst of all, frankly—if his father were to discover that part of him _now_? He would undoubtedly assume it connected to Nacho's career choices, and not in the way that that's true.

Nacho refuses any idea that his desires are evil, but he also knows that he'll never escape it. He's _always_ known that a life both normal and fulfilling wouldn't be possible for him. At age sixteen, long before he even had the opportunity to get into the game, he fantasized about living in that world where no one would expect a wife or child from him.

Where also, he should have realized back then, his desires would be punished with a lot more than disappointment.

And yet it gave him a sense of freedom for a while. For all the vibes that Nacho was _sure_ that he must give off, women were attracted to him, so it was easy to create a cover. It worked from all angles. He could indulge during his free time and feel safe from both the cartel and his own shame.

He still can, really. He still does. He supposes that those nights off... just lost their touch. No hookup has felt like actually satisfying a craving in a very long time—more like simply getting the most basic of needs.

His house is mind-numbing, now. Nacho accepts his girls' affection, allows them to climb on top of him and get their pleasure in return for the most primal of sensations, and he's reminded of how much you begin to dread meals when all you have is plain ramen noodles. How pointless it seems to eat, but of course you have to. He closes his eyes and imagines more friction, more weight. Then he has some fleeting moments of bliss before his hunger starts growing again.

Perhaps he wouldn't be so insatiable if he'd sought out any intimacy since Lalo arrived. It _was_ at least out of caution at first, but then out of a very stupid seed of hope getting itself up. Deathly stupid, in fact, as of the past week.

A Salamanca. A fucking _Salamanca._

A Salamanca who smiled—and not just with his mouth, but with his _eyes_. Who was smart, and charming, and reasonable. Who tucked his shirt into his pants just so, and who could cook, and who sang along with the female crooners on the radio, not hesitating to belt out lyrics about their strong, handsome lovers.

Who somehow managed to look so genuinely sad upon seeing Hector after his stroke that Nacho actually felt a stab of guilt.

Who had eyes for Nacho that grew more obvious by the day.

Who just got on his knees for him, and then brought out food for the both of them to eat together. In the middle of all the suspicion that Nacho is primed to have as to whether there are ulterior motives, he imagines something that he has _never_ had before: the intimacy that he wants, in the male shape that he wants it... with someone who is involved in his life. Who understands him, even.

Sitting here with Lalo, re-living that sight and that pleasure and that _kiss_ , anticipating an end to this meal where he returns the favor—is all incompatible with the life that he envisioned for himself only days ago. He foresees no peace at the end of this road.

Then again, he can't see it in any scenario where he escapes, either. He'll always be hiding something from somebody.

The question of which he would rather hide should be very easy, of course. But some selfish part of him, heightened in this moment, struggles to decide against his desire. The notion of sharing this feeling for as long as possible consumes him.

"Hey—what are you thinking about, hm?" Lalo teases, tapping him on the arm and bringing Nacho's eyes back into focus.

In the seconds he has to form a response, he realizes that he would prefer to tell the truth, now. So he leans over the table, extends a foot underneath it until he brushes against Lalo's, and licks his lips.

"Guess."

The right answer, judging by Lalo's wide-eyed grin. Not that he doubted it would be. Nacho feels a high like he's never felt, right now. Like he could power this whole building with his own heartbeat. He feels adrenaline surge through him, powered solely by the change in the way Lalo looks at him.

He feels like he could run straight into a roaring fire.

**Author's Note:**

> the title translates to 'lost world' and is named for the song that's playing during [that scene in 50% off where lalo is just staring at nacho](https://dedicadoamax.tumblr.com/post/627807696368926720). 
> 
> ([recommended listening](https://dedicadoamax.tumblr.com/post/628652586161061888))


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